


all these little things

by we_are_the_same



Series: Little Things [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Body Worship, Smut, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_are_the_same/pseuds/we_are_the_same
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First time I've written a Larry fic. Be kind to me! xD</p>
<p>"If Harry's body is prose, Louis's responses are poetry." </p>
<p>Based on this prompt:<br/><em>Harry and Louis both go to the same highschool and they don't really talk to each other because Harry is a bit shy and Louis is popular. Harry has always thought Louis was beautiful and has always wanted to touch him. One day they both get invited to a party and Harry and Louis somehow end up talking and Harry kisses him and Louis' all surprised because he's never kissed a guy before and he likes it but can't do it with everyone around. Then when the party is almost over they both go upstairs and Harry begs Louis if he can give him a blowjob and while he's doing it there's a lot of touching and licking and Louis being all flustered and ....yeah.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	all these little things

For some reason, people always equate _shy_ with being insecure. In middle school, Harry's teachers would write down the same thing on his report cards year after year. That he's a sweet boy, that he's smart, he just needs to believe in himself a bit more. Needs to speak up, raise his hand, call attention to himself. And that's just not Harry. He's quite happy not being in the spotlight, doesn't need to command the attention of everyone in the room, but it's not about lacking self-confidence. He's not _afraid_ to be seen, he just doesn't _care_ all that much about being noticed. Haz is happy in the corner, reading a book. Minding his own business. Watching.

It's interesting, the things you see from the sidelines. The importance of appearance, the social hierarchy, Harry understood them from an early age on. He knows how people work, for the most part. He's noticed the cracks in the surface, has seen the scared jock and the insecure cheerleader, watched the way they cover up their flaws, by withdrawing or calling attention to the flaws of others. High-school is kind of like an over-sized ant farm. From afar it just seems like a swarm of people, going this way and that, seemingly without a purpose or sense of direction. But from up close, everything just seems so _orderly_. So _functional_. There's few that are ever alone, even if they feel like it, there's always another ant just like them around the corner.

It's been a comforting thought. Because as much as Harry doesn't care about fitting in, he doesn't particularly want to stand out. Fame, infamy, Harry'd rather people only learn his name when it's called on graduation day. But even in his own little world he has a desire to connect to people. To know that he's not alone. That his struggles are familiar to someone other than him. Haz always knew that somewhere around the corner there'd be someone like him. Maybe not fully like him, but somewhere in that mass of bodies there was someone who watched the way he did. Someone who watched _boys_ the way he did. The way he does.

He didn't expect it to be Louis. In the world of ants, Louis would be queen. He rules the school, with varsity jackets and perfectly coiffed hair and eyes that are so blue that Harry's sure writers have yet to come up with a term to describe them. Contrary to Harry, Louis is never alone.

At first, Harry figured that Louis was like most of those at the top of the food chain. He was watched, he was seen. Adored too, certainly, but only the center of the universe because people _made_ him so. Louis was passive, or so Harry thought.

These days, Harry knows better. Louis watches too. He thinks no one notices and those around him don't, they're seemingly content with just being admired. But Louis isn't subtle, much as he wants to come across that way, and Harry's seen his eyes linger. On his mates – on Zayn, who's the school's infamous bad boy, but whose smile can be so soft and endearing when he truly cares for someone. On Liam, the odd new addition to the popular clique, accepted for his athleticism but not quite understood. Harry's seen Louis watch others too. There's flashes of memories, snapshots of Louis's eyes lingering just a shade too long, the sight of his teeth sinking into his bottom lip permanently etched into Harry's brain.

Of course, Louis doesn't know Harry knows. Harry isn't sure what would happen if he found out, but he knows it would change things. So he's careful around Louis, only watches him when he knows Louis is too busy to pay attention to anyone.

In class, when he's finished his exam and Louis is still scribbling down answers. Harry watches how he pushes his bangs from his eyes on the odd day it isn't styled, memorizes the lean stretch of his body during PE, when Louis swings back his arm before throwing a football to a teammate.

Somewhere along the line watching turns to wanting.

Wanting to run his fingers through his hair.

Wanting to trace his spine, feel the knobs under his fingertips.

Wanting to get close enough to finally put a name to Louis's eye color. 

Harry wants to know how his lips taste and how his scruff feels against his mouth, wants to fit his hands under Louis's jersey and see how much of his waist he can cover with splayed-out fingers.

He sometimes fits his hands around Niall instead, discovers, along the way, how hard he needs to press to leave bruises and how much he can take when he's on his knees and his eyes are watering from the way his friend is fucking his mouth, and it's good, it's great, it's high-school. It isn't love but it's self-discovery and Niall lives next door, so it's convenient.

Harry might be shy but he's not insecure _or_ inexperienced.

 

 

His parents don't agree on much, but when it comes to Harry needing to get out more, they are scarily united. It's kind of strange, not in the least because Harry had no intention of going to a party and was practically forced to go, as opposed to, he suspects, 'normal' people his age. Sneaking out without permission becomes _have a good time son_ , and his half-hearted attempt to get back inside under the pretense of having to do homework got answered with a cheery _you've all weekend, love_. His parents are _weird_ alright.

And apparently Harry is going to a party. Huh.

 

 

He does end up going, if for no other reason than that he's got nothing else to do, and he wonders if he'll find Niall there, despite the fact that he goes to a different school and this is supposedly a private party. Harry doubts people really understand the definition of the word 'private' when no one bats an eyelash at his arrival, when it feels like the entire school is packed into a two-story house –- or the kitchen, at least. He manages to steal a beer, avoids a limb left and right on his way to a couch, is about to sit down when he notices someone doing the same.

Louis.

Harry kind of flails, brain screaming _abort, abort_ while his body is still powering on, and he nearly trips over his feet before he manages to steady himself, toes scuffing against the underside of the couch. Louis looks amused and maybe a little drunk, Harry notices a slight glaze to his eyes when he regards him with a cocked head, a minimal slur in his voice when he drawls out an amused _“Hello.”_

“Hi,” Harry chokes out, and he's _not_ insecure damn it, but he's not a fan of social interactions, the only reason he's still friends with Niall –- aside from the mutual orgasms, because those are a huge benefit –- is because he's known him since they were toddlers sharing a bath together, and that kind of thing apparently creates a life-lasting bond that withstands even the most awkward conversations. Niall's safe and familiar and kind of a dork too, but while Louis may watch boys and Harry may feel like he knows him, he _really_ doesn't.

He knows how his lips quirk and his eyes crinkle, how his cologne smells and his laugh sounds, but he doesn't know _Louis_.

So he says “I'll leave you to it” despite the fact that Louis didn't seem to be doing anything that he could get back to, and he sort of waves goodbye and luckily has enough of a mind to shift his beer to his non-flailing hand.

Apparently that's where his sense of self-preservation ends, because when Louis says _“Wait”_ and Harry feels fingers wrap around his elbow, he turns around and leans in and kisses him. It's the kind of thing that he figures should make crowds hush and time stop and the world come to a dizzying halt but none of that happens, and Harry doesn't wait for Louis to shove him away. He steps back and mutters “Oh my God” and “I'm sorry” and this time he does spill his beer but it's in a hasty retreat.

 

 

Why he's still there, hours later, Harry has no clue. It's not the beer, it's _definitely_ not the music, and though he thought he'd spotted familiar blond hair earlier on in the crowd, it's not Niall he's staying for. It may be Louis, he may or may not have been trying to come up with an apology, an excuse, but he's not seen more than a flash of his varsity jacket an hour and thirty-seven minutes ago. Even if he did find Louis, he doubts the other would react kindly to him, let alone agree to follow him to a place where Harry's attempt at an explanation won't be overheard. 

When he can't feel his arse from the cold that's crept up his body and settled under his clothes, Harry finally concedes that perhaps it's time to go home and let what will happen in school on Monday happen. He dusts off his backside, stretches cold limbs that protest the sudden movement that followed hours of sitting on the grass in the backyard, but before he can take the few steps that'll lead him up the porch, the door opens.

Harry slinks back into the shadows as two figures materialize, freezes when he hears one of them laugh, too loud, too familiar. Liam. The other shushes him, laughs too, deeper, throatier, and Harry knows that laugh as well, knows who Liam's with before his voice drifts to his ears. _“C'mon yeah, stay quiet now”_ Zayn whispers, and Liam's voice sounds muffled, something that piques Harry's natural curiosity, makes him shift a fraction so he can see what they're up to. They're near the apple tree, the same spot Harry chose because he knew no one would see him from the porch, the branches and the position of the tree clothing them in darkness. All he can see is vague shapes, and Harry's trying to figure out if it's worth it to sneak closer when he hears voices again. _“Cold”_ That's Liam's voice, followed by another throaty chuckle. _“Keep you warm, Li”_ Zayn says, and Harry feels his cheeks flush and his stomach lurch because what comes next is the unmistakable sound of kissing and he is _so screwed_ if they find him here.

Luckily they're too wrapped up in each other to notice him, but Harry still has no choice but to go back inside the house rather than sneak out the backyard. The party's winding down though, which he figures is why Zayn and Liam felt comfortable enough to sneak off together. He's glad for it, it's a lot easier to move through the corridor when he's not dodging people left and right.

Apparently it's also a lot easier for people to spot him, and Harry should've known that, should've been watching as he usually is, but Louis manages to take him by surprise. Doubly, because he didn't expect to be seen and he definitely didn't expect the hand that circles his wrist and _tugs_.

It's not his fault he nearly elbows Louis in the stomach when he flails, but Louis just laughs, herds him into a room and backs him against the door. _“So,”_ he says, and Harry swallows. “So,” he echoes, and Louis laughs again. _“Harry Styles”_ He says, and Harry's fairly sure his name has never sounded sweeter. _“Harry, Harry. Y'know, normally people introduce themselves before they go and snog someone.”_

“You seem to know who I am, though” Harry argues, and this time Louis doesn't laugh, just levels him with a look that Harry knows all too well, because it's the way he looks at the world, the way he scrutinizes everything. He idly wonders if Louis is counting his eyelashes, memorizing the slant to his eyes, the way Harry would if he wasn't both scared and fascinated by how close Louis is. “Cerulean.” He says dumbly, and Louis faintly arches an eyebrow. “Your eye-color. I can never find the right word for it. Right now it's cerulean.”

Louis looks slightly taken aback, blinks those impossibly blue eyes. _“Am I an experiment to you, Harry Styles? Are you trying to piece me together? Figure out all the details, then you'll know me by default?”_

Harry shakes his head, licks his lips. “No. Yes.” His fingers are on Louis's bicep now, oddly fascinated by the texture of his muscles underneath his skin. “I want to know how your skin tastes. I want to feel your vocal chords vibrate when I press my lips to your throat and make you hum. I want to know-” He pauses, meets Louis's eyes, chooses not to dissect the look in them. “I want to feel you. Against me, inside me, around me.” His fingers have shifted to grab at Louis's collar, fabric bunched up in his fists. “Let me suck you off. Let me feel, I want to _know_ , Louis, I want to –- let me?”

Louis blinks, silent save for the shivery exhale that Harry can feel against his cheek. “Please” He says, doesn't know why he's begging, why he suddenly wants this so much, Louis's dick in his mouth, his taste on his tongue. Maybe it _is_ about understanding him, about dissecting him and making sense of him –- about taking away the power he has over Harry because knowledge is power and the unknown unnerves him. Or maybe he wants Louis's mark on him. Maybe, for once, he _does_ want to be seen.

“ _Yeah”_ Louis sounds wrecked and his hands are shaking when he drops them to his sides, but he licks his lips and nods. _“Yeah. Fuck, Harry. Yeah.”_

Harry lets out a rush of air, relief flooding through him as he sinks to his knees, so fast that Louis ends up blinking down at him again, and the most popular guy in school suddenly looks young and kind of clueless. He parts his lips like he wants to say something, maybe ask if they should move because Harry's still boxed in against the door, but Harry likes where he is, likes Louis so close that there's nothing else to focus on. He pops the buttons on Louis's jeans, slides them halfway down his thighs and then gets distracted by Louis's leg hair. It's darker than he suspected from a boy as light-haired as Louis, yet they're oddly soft, like Louis went to get a haircut and he forgot to wipe the stray bits off his leg. He presses his fingertips against them, notices the difference between the softness of his skin on the outside of his thigh versus on his hip, uses his mouth to discover how his inner thigh tastes.

Louis's fingers are in his hair and Harry looks up, sees him watching, other hand pressed against the door, and Harry can see his jaw clench as he mouths him through his boxers, keeps eye contact as he draws up a hand to fondle at his balls. _“Fuck”_ Louis mutters, and Harry grins, clever fingers sneaking up his shirt so he can bite at the soft skin just above his waistband. “You're so gorgeous” He mutters, tugs down his boxers so he can trace the soft path of hair down his stomach with his tongue, can leave a kiss where hip meets thigh. “Lou, you're so-” He groans, noses at his pubic hair, breathes in his smell and it should be weird, it should not be a turn-on but the way Louis breathes out tells him he's not the only one aroused.

“ _Yeah?”_ He sounds almost surprised, flustered, and Harry looks up incredulously. “God, yeah.” Louis isn't all that cocky when he smiles this time, it's more soft, sweeter, though his lips part in a gasp when Harry licks from base to tip, fits his hand around Louis's cock and jacks him slowly. “Yeah, Lou, Jesus. You're so hard.” He never pegged Louis to be the type to get off on dirty talk but the thud that follows his words speaks volumes, Louis's forehead pressed against the door alongside his hand now. _“Keep going”_ He says, and Harry expects him to fist his hand in his hair and guide his mouth but he traces his jaw instead. _“Tell me more.”_

So Harry does. He tells him all the things he's noticed. All the things he loves about Louis, from the way his thighs tense to the way his stomach quivers, uses his voice and his teeth and his tongue to pay tribute. He noses at his thigh and sucks a hickey into the sensitive skin above his hipbone, fits his hands around Louis's hips and praises the fingers in his hair. Louis sighs and moans and whispers _“Harry, Harry.”_ and Harry praises that too, wraps him in words until he runs out of things to say, can't think of any more descriptions to do him justice. He lets his hands and mouth take over then, sucks him down and writes prose with the way his throat muscles flutter around the very tip of Louis's cock.

If Harry's body is prose, Louis's responses are poetry. It's stanza's of _Harry, Harry, Harry_ and iambic pentameters of _oh-yeah-oh-yeah_. Harry wants more, it's not enough to commit this to memory, to know how he tastes, how he feels, how he sounds and smells. He wants to know how Louis gives, how he wants, how he marks.

When Louis's litany of praise turns shallow and broken, Harry jacks him hard and fast, brushes his lips over his head until they're shiny. “Come on me” He says, and Louis grunts in response, hips twitching when Harry opens his mouth and flicks his tongue over the vein on the underside of his cock. “Do it.” He takes him deep again, swallows around him, Louis's moans absolutely filthy as he sucks hard on the upstroke. “Want to know how it feels, you on me. On my face.” He relishes in the whimper that follows, the barely audible _“Oh God,”_ that Louis grits out before fingers tighten in his hair when Harry twists his hand and mouths at the head. _“Gonna-”_ He warns, and Harry pulls back, feels fingers strain against his scalp. “Yeah” He says, fits his hands around Louis's hips again. “Yeah, c'mon Lou.”

The first splash on his face is enough to make him groan, the sight of Louis watching him so intently so arousing that he tilts his head back so the next load hits his cheek, clings to his eyelashes and dribbles down to his mouth, leaves lips glistening. Louis groans and it sounds absolutely ruined, the last of his come hitting Harry's throat, pooling down in-between his collarbones.

Harry's careful not to open his eyes, waits for Louis to gather his breath and brush his thumb over his eyelid, clearing away the liquid before he glances up, a smile on his face that's mirrored on Louis's face. Harry can't resist swirling a finger in the come that's cooling on his chest, and from the way Louis's eyes darken as he pops the digit into his mouth, he's sorry he can't go for another round right away.

“ _And?”_ Louis asks, still slightly out of breath. _“Am I what you expected?”_

Harry looks at him, takes in his disheveled hair and blissed-out eyes, trails his eyes down to the bite mark on his hip. He smiles, and it's somewhat smug. “Better.”


End file.
